


The Usual

by Sophia_Anne_Moore



Category: High School Musical (Movies)
Genre: Coffee Shops, F/M, barista
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-28 23:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12617648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Anne_Moore/pseuds/Sophia_Anne_Moore
Summary: The story of a struggling writer and his impatient, forgetful, inspirational barista. (Troyella, Zekepay - COMPLETE)





	1. Prologue

            The shifting of luggage in the overheard compartments, the squeal of a newborn a few rows ahead, and the loud clacks of fingers dancing on a keyboard fill the congested air inside the cramped airplane. Reaching the end of her rope, the fatigued, frustrated businesswoman impatiently asks the young man next to her, “Could you please type softer, _please_?”

            “Yeah.” The man responds monotonously to whatever she said, too entrapped in his work to actually listen to her request and register its meaning.

            “Thank you.” The tired woman groans before bringing the blanket over herself again.

            After a beautiful ten minutes of a quieter surrounding, she is shocked into consciousness again as the young man exclaims “Oh!” excitedly before taking a loud gasp in exhilaration, his eyes wide in thrill and clapping his hands together before proudly declaring, “That’s it!”

            “What?” The woman asks panicky at the man’s sudden movements and sounds. “What happened?” She asks in concern.

            “I’ve figured it out!” Troy meets her worried eyes and feels remorseful for concerning her with his excitement. “Oh, it’s nothing important. I’m sorry; I just got excited over something. I’ll work quieter now.”

            “What are you working on anyways?” She asks, accepting the fact that she won’t be able to catch up on sleep on this noisy flight.

            “A book.” He responds coyly.

“A _book_?” She repeats, surprised and impressed at his undertaking.

“Yes, I’m a writer now.” He seems almost hesitant about the declaration, the foreign feeling of his new profession.

            “What do you write?” She inquires.

            “Fiction mainly. The piece I’m working on now is-” but before Troy can finish his lively and passionate explanation of his work, a sudden turbulence jerks their bodies and causes the lights above to flicker. Troy’s fingers dig into the armrests as he grips them for what appears to be his dear life. His giant blue eyes looks around the plane frantically in an obvious panic. Then, just as soon as the turbulence appeared, it vanishes, but Troy’s raising heart ceases to regulate as he begins, “What-” but his rapid breathing steals his words, until he chokes out, “what was that?”

            “Just turbulence, hon.” The woman responds evenly.

            “Really?” Troy, considerably calmer, yet still visibly shaken up, responds.

            “…God, if you get spooked by a little turbulence, I wonder how in the world you’ll be able to survive New York City.” She jokes with a small laugh.

            “Yeah.” Troy responds with an awkward chuckle that quickly fades as he ponders her words.

            Sensing her joke evoked some anxiety in the young man by the worry in his eyes, she is quick to reassure him, “Hey, I’m only joking. You’ll survive The Big Apple just fine!”

            “I know,” He responds unconvincingly, nervously rubbing his sweaty hands on his jeans.

            “You got on the plane.” She points out with a hint of praise.

            “What does that have to do anything?” He asks, his eyebrows dipping together in confusion.

            “Really? The metaphor writes itself!”

            “Don’t tell me you’re one of those John Green, unlit cigarette, ‘it’s a metaphor’ people.” Troy pleads.

            “I’m sorry, _what_ people?”

            He dismisses the comment with a shake of his head, “Never mind. Continue.”

            “Anyways…you got on the plane, but you apparently have a fear of it crashing. You’re going to New York City to become a writer, but that plan could easily fall apart.” She scans him for understanding, but he sits unmoved in a confused daze. Sighing impatiently, she explains bluntly, “You’re the passenger, your writing career is the plane, and the fall is failure. There’s always the risk of falling when we attempt to fly.”

            “There’s always the risk of falling when we attempt to fly.” He repeats, feeling the words slip off his tongue for himself.

            “Mm hmm.” She nods her head, a greying strand of blonde hair falling out from the disheveled bun atop her head and cascading down her face.

            “That’s really good.” He says almost enviously that he didn’t think of them himself, “Who said that?”

            “I did. Just now.” She responds with a flattered laugh.

            “Can I put that in my book?”

            “It’s honestly not _that_ poetic, but if you want to use it, sure.”

            “Thanks, I’ll dedicate my book to you as a thank you.” Troy says with a wink.

            “Oh please,” a bright shade of pink washes over her otherwise pale complexion at the compliment, she responds, “I’m sure you have much more important people to dedicate your book to than some woman you met once on a four hour flight.”

            “I actually don’t have anyone else to thank. No ones exactly helps me with this.” He responds, moving his eyes over to the window and watching the clouds floating next to them.

            “ _Yet_.” She begins, setting her hand atop of his empathetically and bring his attention back to her. Once the blue eyes return to meet her emerald ones again, she encourages him saying, “New York City is a massive place with a large amount of aspiring writers. I’m confident you’ll find someone to support you.”

            “Well if I happen to cross some inspirational and supporting individuals, I’ll be sure to mention them too.” Troy nods in agreement.

            “I’ll be looking out for it.” She softly pats the back of his hand in farewell before replacing the itchy airline blanket up to her shoulders again.

 


	2. Falstaff Café

 

            Troy quickly steps up to the register, a line forming behind him in one of New York City’s busiest Starbucks, and says, “I just want a twenty ounce-”

            “You mean venti?” The barista corrects him.

            “Whatever…a _venti_ cup of coffee.”

            “That’ll be five, eight-two.” The barista reaches his hand out for money, but Troy remained still.

            “For a cup of coffee?” Troy finally asks in astonishment.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “That’s ridiculous!”

            “I don’t make the prices, sir.”

            “I know you don’t.” Troy rolls his eyes and considers the purchase just a moment before quickly deciding there’s no way it’ll be worth it and exits the coffee shop.

Greeted with the familiar, bustling 14th Street, Troy glances around his surroundings, considering his next move. Hints of yellow snuggled close to his pupils in his otherwise bright blue eyes show themselves in the presence of the sun shining high above. He knocks down the pair of ray bands from his head onto the bridge of his nose with a violent nod of his head. Bitterness bites into his heart as he realizes the truth of the situation. He can’t just spend money like how he would when his parents covered everything. Plainly, he just can’t afford much of anything anymore. When suddenly by pure luck, the smallest sign across the street catches his eyes. It read, _Hot Coffee $1.50._ His eyes float up from the small window to the larger sign above reading, _Falstaff Café._

            The windows are covered from the inside with old coffee bean bags sewn together to form cheap, makeshift drapes. The long wall to the left of the door is lined with tables and chairs, with dim light bulbs hanging from the ceiling that flicker sporadically. The scent of freshly ground coffee beans and sugary Thai tea competes with a musty, dirty water smell. On the wall behind the counter, a chalkboard with the few drink options and prices hangs slightly tilted. Compensating for the chalkboard, he tilts his head slightly as he sheepishly approaches the counter.

            “Hello, dear.” The fragile, aged voice greets the young man from somewhere behind the espresso machine, too short to be seen.

            “Hello?” He asks, looking around the café for the source of the voice.

            “What can I get for you?” A petite, wrinkled woman steps out from behind the massive machine and into Troy’s sight. His eyes trace the white hair framing her aged features, the apron covering her clothing, the thick lenses in front of her distinct, emerald eyes.

            “Your sign caught my eye,” he explains, “Is it really just a dollar and a half for coffee?”

            “That’s what it says.” She responds, clenching a damp, stained rag in her hand and wiping off a drop of coffee on the counter between them.

            “What size?” He asks, a brunette eyebrow rising suspiciously.

            “Twenty-four ounces.” She answers.

            “Perfect!” He responds with a warm smile, handing her two singles, “I’ll have one of those, please. Also, when do you close?”  
            “We’re always open.” She responds.

            “This place doesn’t get any better!” Troy exclaims happily. To which a few café patrons shoot him dirty looks, glancing up from their work annoyed.

            “Shh!” Mrs. Falstaff brings her index finger up to her lips.

            Troy’s eyes widen and eyebrows dip together as he stands unmoved and perplexed, “Did…” Troy begins, “Did you just shush me?”

            “We have a strict no talking policy in the café.”

            “Oh,” Troy drops his voice to a quieter level, leans towards Ms. Falstaff, and says, “I’m sorry.”

            Ms. Falstaff gently sets down a large cup of coffee on a platter and reaches two quarters out to him.

            “Keep the change.” Troy offers and carefully grabs the platter and takes it over to a nearby table. As he begins to set the plate and coffee down, it settles lopsided and a small amount overflows.

Troy takes a good look around at the fellow patrons and recognizes them almost immediately as his own kind. Although the mop water smell and dark lighting and wobbly tables make for a less than desired café experience, the quiet environment and affordable coffee makes Falstaff Café a popular hub for poor poets and writers alike. The men’s faces have a week’s worth of unshaven stubble. The women have messy buns slowly falling apart on their heads. The tired, reddened eyes juxtapose the energetic fingers speedily tapping away at the keyboards.

Just as Troy situates himself in the sturdy wooden chair and carefully positions his laptop on the wobbly table, the door swings open and welcomes a cool, New York breeze. Glancing up from his work, his eyes fall on a blindingly pink business suit and long locks of blonde hair. As the woman turns to approach the counter, Troy watches as she raises her designer sunglasses from her eyes and folds them close in her hands. The stiletto heals clack against the tile floor until she reaches the front.

“Hello, Miss. Evans.” Troy barely hears the old woman speak as she does so in such a soft, hushed tone.

“Good evening, Ms. Falstaff. The usual, please.” Miss. Evans responds, meeting her hushed volume with her own.

“You got it.” Ms. Falstaff then turns to prepare the drink. Meanwhile, Miss. Evans, quickly spins on her heels and her brown eyes suddenly land on Troy’s lingering blues.

Awkwardly refocusing his attention on his laptop, he types at random, but hears the stiletto clacks growing louder and louder until her pink suit is visible out of the corner of his eye.

“You any good?” She asks while peering down at him with her arms crossed over her chest.

“What?” Troy asks.

“Shh!” Ms. Falstaff shushes the duo from the counter.

Taking the seat on the opposite side of the table, Miss. Evans folds her hands on the table and quietly clarifies, “Are you a good writer?”

“How did you know I write?”

“It’s my job to spot your type. I’m a publishing agent, and I can change your poor life if you’re any good.”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Troy accidently regains his normal voice level in excitement.

“Shh!” Ms. Falstaff shushes them again.

 _Sorry_ , Troy mouths.

“Here’s my card,” Miss. Evans removes a small, silver tin from her white purse and takes out a crisp business card. “Send me your best. We’ll be in touch.” Leaving the card on the table, Miss. Evans quickly crosses the café to the counter, grabs her drink, and flees in a rush.

…

            “Next, we’re going to rinse the lettuce.” Troy hears a muffled voice on the TV talking just beyond the door. His hands fumble around with the keys for a moment, the excitement coursing through his veins affecting his movements.

            “Zeke!” He yells into the small apartment once he forces the door open.

            “Yup?” Zeke asks from his spot on the couch, lounging with a massive bowl of Cheetos resting on his stomach.

            “Is that Martha Stewart?” Troy asks in amusement, pointing to the woman on the TV screen.

            “Problem? Martha’s a cooking legend!” Zeke defends his choice in TV while tossing a Cheeto up into the air, letting it arch, then fall back down into his mouth.

            “Whatever,” Troy shakes off the distraction and speedily crosses in front of the TV to capture Zeke’s full attention, “Dude,” he begins, his face gleaming with excitement, “You’ll never guess what just happened.”

            “What happened?” Zeke asks uninterested, taking the Cheetos off of his stomach and onto the glass coffee table.

            “I met a publishing agent.”

            “That was damn fast! Congrats!” Zeke sat up in the couch and leaned forward, supporting his weight on his elbows that rested on his knees.

            “I know! She knew that I was a writer like a psychic or something. I got her card to send her my work. I may already get a deal!”

            “That’d be awesome!”

            “You want to celebrate?” Troy offers.

            “Chef needs me in the kitchen tonight,” Zeke explains regrettably, “maybe tomorrow night?”

            “Works for me.” Troy agrees to the plans understandingly.

            “Speaking of chef, I should probably start heading to the restaurant. I’ll be home around three.” Zeke wipes his orange dusted hands off on his sweatpants as he stands up.

            “I guess I’ll send Miss. Evans my best stuff.” Troy announces while searching around the floor for where he set down his laptop case.

            “Wait…” Zeke holds an index finger in the air in thought, “did you say Miss. Evans?”

            “Yes, do you know her?” Troy asks.

            “Always blindingly pink? Long, blonde hair? Very type-A?”

            “Sounds like the same chick.”

            “She comes into the restaurant every night. You have to introduce us! I’ve always been too shy to come out and say hi.”

            “Oh, so you like her?”

            “I think she’s cute.”

            “Weird. I never would have thought she’d be your type.”

            In response, Zeke simply shrugs as he swings his leather jacket over his back and pulls it on. “See you in the morning.”

            “See you then.”

…

_From:_ [ _sharpayevans_ ](mailto:sharpayevans@gmail.com)

_Subject: Re: Previous Work_

_Good evening Troy,_

_Thank you so much for sending me your work in such a timely matter. I’m glad you’re just as excited as I am about the possibility in getting your pieces published. You will need to keep that energy high during this long process._

_I have read your untitled work. I have to say, I am impressed! I think that it is definitely something to continue working on and finishing. Seventy thousand words is a great start, but I need an ending before I can send this to my boss. Once you send me the completed work, I can officially approve of it and set it up for review. After it’s accepted there (which I am more than confident it will be), we will find an editor to work with you. Do you have any questions at this point?_

_Thanks,_

_Sharpay Evans_

Troy’s eyes read every single word with meticulous concentration probably seven times. With every additional read the meaning of words becoming more and more real. Publishing could be a mere chapter away! It’s really happening!

…

            His feet feel sorer than they were back in his track days as they land heavily on the tile leading to the apartment’s front door. Letting out a heavy sigh, Zeke rubs his tired eyes before leaning against the door in a lazy attempt to open it.

            The clock on the microwave illuminates _3:18AM_ into the otherwise completely dark room. Slowly twisting the light knob, he brings the lights barely on to make his way to his room. Along with the rest of the room, Troy’s sprawled out body on the couch slowly comes into focus.

            Passing by the snoring figure, Zeke caringly repositions the falling blanket over Troy’s body fully.

            “What are you doing?” Troy slurs, only half conscious.

            “Go back to sleep, Troy.” Zeke orders quietly, his voice barely a half whisper.

            “Sounds good.” Troy mumbles before falling back into a deep, deep sleep.


	3. Gabriella

“So let me get this straight,” the voice on the line says to Zeke, “You’re concerned because he won’t stop working on his story?”

“That’s the thing, I’m not even sure if he’s working on it,” Zeke clarifies. He slowly pushes his bedroom door open just enough to spy on Troy sitting on the couch through the crack. His chestnut hair looks three shades darker from its grease, the whites of his eyes red and puffy from sleep deprivation while the blues icily glare at the laptop in front of him. “He’s not typing or anything,” Zeke quietly speaks, passing on his observations to Chad on the other end of the call. “I don’t know if you can even consider it writing. He’s just sitting there… _staring_ at it. Not typing or moving at all. I mean, is this normal for writers? Is this a part of the whole ‘creative process’ or whatever?”

“I don’t know, man! Do I seem like someone who has written a novel before?” Chad says.

“I just want to know if I should be concerned or not. This isn’t normal for him.” Zeke shares as the worry in his voice weighs heavily on his typically upbeat tone.

The line goes silent for a moment as Chad considers everything that Zeke has told him about their mutual best friend. Finally, he concludes, “I think that if he’s acting so abnormal that you need concern me with it, you should address it with him.”

“Alright, I’ll talk to him.” Zeke decides, “Thanks.”

“And Zeke!” Zeke hears the voice yell at him just before he almost hits the end call button.

“Yeah?” He asks into the device, bringing it back up to his ear.

“Keep me updated, please.”

“Okay.” Zeke agrees, tapping the red circle on the phone’s touchscreen, then gently tossing he device onto his bed. Anxiously rubbing his hand on top of his head, he departs the small bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind him, and wanders into the living room. His feet stop in front of coffee table situated between himself and Troy on the couch. “Troy?” Zeke asks.

“What is it?” Troy asks, his voice quiet and vacant of any emotion whatsoever.

“Are- are you okay, man?”

            “I’m fine.” Troy shrugs nonchalantly, still staring blankly at his laptop.

            “I don’t think you are, man.” Zeke reveals, bringing his hand up to his heart in sincerity, “I honestly don’t.”

            “What do you mean?” Troy finally brings his eyes up to meet Zeke’s and immediately notices genuine concern written on his friend’s face.

            “You’ve just been sitting around, moping with your laptop for weeks now.” Suddenly, a loud, angry banging on the door interrupts the two. “Hang on,” Zeke says as he crosses the small living area to the front door.

            Unlatching the locks and opening the door, he finds himself confronted with a visibly angered blonde woman, hands placed firmly on her pink dress-covered hips. “Where is he?” The blonde screeches, snatching the designer sunglasses from her face to allow Zeke to see the anger in her brown eyes.

            “Who?” Zeke asks, putting his hands up on either side of him defensively.

            “Move!” Sharpay pushes past Zeke and enters the apartment uninvited. Her eyes land on Troy’s confused facial expression, she points out an accusing finger dramatically and screams, “You! What the hell have you been doing?”

            “Writing.” Troy answers plainly, attempting to level out her fury with his apathy.

            “Then where’s my ending?” Sharpay yells.

            “Um, it’s not in existence yet?”

            “Troy, it’s been a month!” The anger in Sharpay’s tone is quickly traded for frustration and disappointment as she continues, “A _month_! If you don’t get your story finished, it’s not going anywhere. I have deadlines. I made promises!”

            “I’m aware of this, Sharpay!” Troy defends himself, thoroughly annoyed with her nagging, “I don’t need you to come into my apartment screaming at me about stuff I already know I need to do!”

            “Look, I’m only yelling because I care.” Sharpay attempts to explain.

            “That’s a very particular way of showing it, don’t you think?” Zeke interjects, earning himself a hateful glare from Sharpay. “Sorry,” he mumbles and backs away from her in fear.

            “Troy, please.” Sharpay looks back to Troy, her high heals tapping against the hard wood floors as she approaches his spot on the couch, “finish your story.”

            “It’s not that simple! God, you’re mad at me like I’ve been _choosing_ to be lazy this entire time. My inability to write is killing me more than it is anybody else.”

            “Why haven’t you been able to write?” Sharpay asks simply.

            “I don’t know,” Troy sighs, shutting his laptop close and moving it off to the side. Then he massages his temples in stress while saying, “it’s personal, Sharpay.”

            “Then go see a psychiatrist!” Sharpay snaps, “Figure it out. You have one more month, Troy. I mean it, only _one_ more. And you better have something to show from it. Understood?”

            “Yes, Sharpay.” Troy reluctantly agrees.

            Sharpay places her massive designer sunglasses over her eyes again, “Fabulous. Tootles!”

…

            “I knew it was crazy. That’s the thing people don’t get. Everyone thinks I was just being blindly impulsive, but the logical part of me knew it was a terrible idea.” Troy admits, his head being held up by the armrest of the sofa while his legs stretch out the rest of the length and meet the opposite armrest. His hands folded over his stomach slowly rise and fall with his breathing. “However, a much bigger part of me told me it would be worth it. That giving up the comfort and familiarity of Albuquerque would somehow pay off. The uncertainty of New York City and pursuing writing was willing to bear. But now? Now I’m not sure about anything anymore.” Troy was reluctant at first to talk with the psychiatrist, but from the moment he laid back into the plush, warm sofa, he shared more feelings with the doctor than he was aware he even had.

“It messes with me, honestly.” Troy continues, his voice growing hoarse from the past half hour of endless talking, “It messes with who I think I am. Because one second I’m hopeful and popular Troy. Then out of nowhere I’m completely hopeless or numb. It’s like…I don’t know. It makes me feel like I’m crazy.”

            There’s a pause in the air as Troy glances over to trace the sound of the doctor furiously scribbling on her notepad, “How long would you say this has been occurring?” The doctor asks, her eyes still glued on her notes.

            “I’m not sure. It would come in spurts in college, but I had it under control. Now I guess it’s just been triggered by the big move. I’m scared of it, doctor. The thoughts it gives me.”

            “I understand the concern, Mr. Bolton.” The doctor’s big, emerald eyes peer at him empathetically from behind thin lenses, “If you could, let’s go back to your happy moods. What behaviors do you exhibit?”

            “I feel unstoppable.” Troy glances to the dusty light fixture above in thought, “Eternal. I see myself as a God.” He recalls, “I sleep around, I write for days, I solemnly need sleep. It’s amazing really. I think I can do and be anything. It’s…completely delusional.”

            “Okay,” She elongates the word, buying herself time to continue the notes on her pad, “How does that contrast with your current mood?”

            “Much less desirable to put it simply. It’s the polar opposite. I just have no drive or ambition. I can’t write. I sometimes have issues just getting out of bed entirely.”

            “I’m sorry to hear of your struggles, Troy. I truly am. From what I’ve gathered today, I’m confident with a mood disorder diagnosis. For treatment, I have a medication in mind that I’d like us to try.”

            “Hold on…” Troy brings his feet back down onto the rug-covered floor and sits up right. “ _Mood_ disorder?” Troy asks, looking somewhat puzzled.

            “Yes,” The doctor, uncrossing her legs and readjusting in her chair, explains, “such as bipolar disorder.”

            “Oh.” Troy replies, “Okay.”

            “I’m going to start you on a low dose antipsychotic called Olanzapine. Hopefully we see some results within the next few weeks. I want to set up another appointment with you a month from today for a check up, but if anything big comes up between now and then, please don’t hesitate to call me. Alright?”

            “Okay.” Troy answers plainly, just trying to process the information.

            “Wonderful meeting with you today, Mr. Bolton,” The short, thin, greying woman stands, offering out a hand.

            “You too, thank you, Doctor.” With a gentle shake in farewell, Troy departs the office.

…

            “I’m home!” Troy yells into the small apartment, finding Zeke with his ears covered by a pair of massive headphones, jaw lazily hanging open as he stares at the game on the TV.

            “How’d it go?” Zeke asks suddenly.

            “Great.” Troy responds, tossing the small bag from the pharmacy on the coffee table and spinning around to fall into the couch next to Zeke.

“What’s that?” Zeke asks, using his foot to point at the small paper bag as his hands are too busy with the controller.

            “Oh, um, Olernzapam? Olumzepone? Something like that,” Troy quickly rips open the stapled bag and takes out a small, translucent orange pill bottle. Staring down at the label, he reads, “Olanzapine!”

            “Of course! Olanzapine!” Zeke begins sarcastically while making another kill in the game on the screen, “The one high school chemistry lecture I remember!” Zeke drops the tone and asks seriously, “What the hell is Olanzapine?”

            “It’s for my moods I suppose.” Troy says with a shrug.

            “Do you think it’s going to work?” Zeke asks with a doubtful tone.

            “I sure as hell hope it will.” Troy stands and begins to cross the living area towards the kitchen, “Want a drink?” He calls back to Zeke.

            “No, man. I actually have to get going,” Zeke explains, turning off his gaming console and searching the small living area for his jacket, “Chef had a busy lunch so we have extra prep to do before the dinner rush.”

            “That sucks,” Troy attempts to mask his disappointment and sound more understanding, “I guess I’ll see you in the morning?”

            “Yeah, I’m sorry.” Zeke says, zipping up his jacket and sauntering over to the front door, “See ya!”

            “Bye.” Troy stands alone in the center of the small apartment on the thin, dusty rug, debating what to do with the rest of his day. When suddenly, a soft grumble sounds outside the window since a storm appears to be forming. Swinging on his jacket, Troy shuts the door snuggly behind him and departs the apartment complex, the bulky laptop case swung over his shoulder.

With the rain smacking onto the pavement harder and heavier with every passing moment, Troy quickly picks up his pace to a slight jog on his way to the café. Just as the water in his hood begins to soak into his hair, he finds shelter inside of the Falstaff Café.

Instead of the fragile and aged Ms. Falstaff there to greet him from behind the counter, a young, brown haired and brown eyed, petite girl looks at him expectantly from behind the counter.

“He wants a coffee.” The aged voice he can only imagine belonging to Ms. Falstaff says form somewhere in the back.

“Okay.” The girl says, pushing some buttons on the old register.

“Hey.” Troy approaches the counter, glancing around to find Ms. Falstaff, until his eyes finally spot her from between the coffee pots and espresso machine, “How are you today, Ms. Falstaff?”

“Training,” She says while nodding her head at the young girl just next to her. “This is Gabriella, she’s going to start helping out around here since my niece is leaving the city soon.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Gabriella.” Troy says with a friendly smile, one that she doesn’t return, but instead looks back at him blankly.

“It’ll be one fifty.” Gabriella responds simply.

“Okay,” Troy says, somewhat taken back by her unapproachable attitude.

“Thanks.” Gabriella says monotonously as Troy lays the dollar bill and two quarters on the counter in between them. After tossing the cash into the register, she roughly sets the platter and cup of coffee on the counter between them with a clank.

Troy shakes off the young barista’s rudeness and takes his usual seat towards the center of the herd of tables and chairs.


	4. Side Effects

Troy’s face is smudged flat against the lopsided table from the weight of his head. The breaths he takes are even and peaceful while his limp body leans into the table and very slowly push it across the floor millimeter at a time. Just as the drool puddle underneath his head spreads to his ear, she says, “This one’s on the house.” And roughly sets the mug down on the table, the abrupt sound and vibrations waking him up.

“Whoa, what?” Troy asks, glancing around the café frantically and confused. “Where is everyone? What time is it? What is this?”

Visibly overwhelmed and annoyed by his rapid-fire questions, she raises a hand for him to shut up and calmly responds, “First, probably home. Second,” She brings up her wrist and reads her watch, “It’s nearly four. Finally, that’s a free Americano.”

“It’s four in the morning?” Troy asks incredulously.

“That’s what I said.” She responds in a tone heavy with attitude, turning her back to him and walking away to her space behind the counter.

“Hey,” he begins, picking up the mug of Americano and bringing it up to the counter. With his other hand, he rubs the back of his neck in pain from the awkward position he was sleeping in. “I don’t want this.” He says while slowly and sorely placing the mug down on the counter between them.

Gabriella glances up at him from her work counting inventory with a disbelieving look. “That _so_ unappreciative.” She chastises, quickly snatching up the Americano and roughly dumping the liquid down the sink. “Ms. Falstaff wanted to replace your cold drink for free and you just reject it? What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” Troy raises his hands defensively, “That’s not my drink. I only ever get straight, black coffee.”

“It’s a free drink, dude.” Gabriella says while her brown eyes glare at him hatefully, “Just shut up and drink it.” Frustrated, she picks up the clipboard for inventory again and turns back around to continue her work.

“Excuse me?” Troy asks angrily, placing his hands on the counter and leaning onto them,   
“Where is Ms. Falstaff?”

“She’s gone for the night.” Gabriella responds coolly, looking over her shoulder at him, “What? Are you going to complain about me or something?”

“You really need to fix your attitude, _Miss_.” Troy spits the words with anger.

“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes as his advice and continues to count to go cups.

Suddenly feeling the painful emptiness in his stomach from the last twelve hours without a meal, Troy strides back to his table and grabs his jacket off the chair. Swinging the door open, he departs the café. With his eyebrows furrowed together, he keeps his eyes fixated on the damp pavement in front of him as he makes his way back to his apartment.

…

            “Troy!” Zeke yells from the kitchen, his head deep in the fridge in search for something. Not finding it, he shuts the fridge door and quickly walks over the couch Troy’s currently sleeping on. “Troy!” He yells again, using his foot to push into Troy’s hip and wake him.

            “What, dude?” Troy asks angrily, unhappy to be woken up, even though it’s already one in the afternoon.

            “I brought home some salmon from work in the morning and can’t find it. Did you see it?” Zeke asks, mustard and ketchup packets still in his hands from the search.

            “Oh,” Troy shoots his eyes away from Zeke and into the distance guiltily, and then regrettably tells him, “I kind of ate it.”

            “What do you mean by ‘kind of’?”

            “I mean I did.” Troy says quickly, like telling the truth was equivalent to ripping off a Band-Aid.

            “Are you serious? Troy, that’s basic roommate etiquette. You don’t eat your roommate’s food. Didn’t you learn that in the dorms?”

            “I’m sorry, dude,” Troy sits up on the couch and says, “I ate all of my food and was really, really hungry.”

            “Then you go buy more food!”

            “Look, I said I was sorry.”

            “Well sorry’s not going to make me lunch!” Zeke says, leaving Troy and the conversation in the living room and going back into the kitchen.

            Sighing, Troy grabs his laptop off of the coffee table and sets it down on his lap. Opening the lid, he checks his email to find a few unread emails.

_From: Sharpay Evans_

_Subject: Deadlines_

_Hello Troy,_

_I am emailing you to remind you that as of midnight tonight, you will only have 29 days left to finish your book or I will have no other choice but to stop representing you._

_I sincerely hope you can find some inspiration between now and then to finish your book._

_Thank you,_

_Sharpay Evans_

            The next email was a spam message about cheap car insurance. He deletes it without even opening it. Then, he finds one from a very familiar name.

_From: Lucile Bolton_

_Subject: Just Checking In_

_Hello Sweetie!_

_It’s your mom. I wanted to know if you phone was broken and if not, ask why you never seem to pick up and call! I miss you, dear. I’m your mother; I think I deserve a call every once in a while. I want to know everything about the living with Zeke, your work writing, if you’ve made any new friends, if perhaps you’ve met a girl. So please call soon. Saturday evenings work best for me._

_Waiting to hear back,_

_Your Mom_

            Glancing at the time in the upper right corner of his screen, Troy does some quick math and figures that it must be eleven in the morning in Albuquerque. His mom would be a work right now. Instead, he opens his iCal app and creates an event to call her on Saturday instead.

Next, Troy opens the massive Word Document that is his story. Before he can begin working, he suddenly realizes that he hasn’t taken his medicine yet today. Groaning to himself for forgetting, he reluctantly stands from his spot and walks over to the linen closet filled with his things. Located between a bunch of socks and his shampoo, he picks up the small bottle of pills and pops off the top. After swallowing two dry, Troy heads back to the living room to continue the work on his story.

About an hour and only two hundred words later, Troy’s body sinks deeper and deeper into the hungry sofa as his neck struggles to keep his head upright from the intense fatigue. He suddenly remembers that this is the time Ms. Falstaff works at her café. Deciding to grab some much-needed caffeine and have a talk with the owner, Troy quickly packs his laptop in its case and heads out to Falstaff Café.

…

Swinging the door open, Troy briskly walks to the front counter and waits. Suddenly, the brunette girl peaks her head out from the back room and spots him. Approaching the register, she simply stares at him expectantly. Breaking their standoff, Troy asks with a faux calmness, “Is Ms. Falstaff here?”

“Ms. Falstaff fell,” Gabriella informs him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Poor thing busted a hip. I’m in charge of the café now as manager. What can I get for you, sir?”

A fleeting thought tells Troy to just turn around and leave, but he reasons that nowhere else will be nearly as cheap as Falstaff Café. As evenly as he can, he responds, “The usual.”

After hitting some buttons on the register, Gabriella states, “That’ll be three, forty-two,” reaching her flat palm out.

Standing unmoved with only a dollar and two quarters in his hands, Troy looks at her blankly.

“Three, forty-two.” Gabriella impatiently repeats louder.

“I know what you said,” Troy says lowly, “When did the prices raise?”

“The prices haven’t raised.”

“Then what the hell are you charging me for?”

Rubbing the bridge of her nose in frustration, she says exasperatedly, “Your vanilla latte, sir.”

Staring at her in disbelief for a few moments, he then says, “My usual is a delicious twenty four ounces of straight, black coffee for only one, fifty.”

“Alright. One, fifty then.” Gabriella says, reaching her hand out further.

Troy reaches out his hand as though he were going to give her the money, and then promptly drops it down on the counter.

“ _Thanks_.” She says sarcastically, picking up the bills and change and tossing them into the register messily.

Troy spins around and takes his usual place in the café.

…

            “I’m telling you, Rick,” She says, the neon pink bangles on her wrist jingling about as she cuts deep into her steak, “The guy’s got talent, that much is clear. It’s just the discipline that I’m worried about.”

            “I’m sure it’s a great piece, Sharpay,” he says, his hairless head glistening underneath the bright lights in the restaurant, “I believe in your taste and aesthetics, but sometimes a mediocre author with a finished book is just what we need at the moment,” he swirls around the glass of wine in his hand before breathing in a deep sniff of it and taking a long swig. He finally continues, “We can’t put an unfinished book on the shelves, no matter how good the beginning is. End of story.”

            “He’ll get it done.” She promises him, gracefully dabbing her mouth with the napkin, “He just needs a month.”

            “I need it in a week.” Rick says.

            The forkful of potatoes and steak freeze halfway to her mouth as her big brown eyes look forward to him in fear. “What?”

            “If you want me to consider the piece, I need it done in a week.”

            “Rick-”

            “One week.”

            Spying on the duo from the O shaped windows in the swinging doors from the kitchen, Zeke longingly watches Sharpay interact with the mystery man.

            “Cook!” Jacques yells in a thick French accent at Zeke, approaching him from the side, “What do you think you are doing? You have orders to do!”

            “Sorry, chef.” Zeke says, bunching up his apron in his hand guiltily.

            “Do you need to take your break and refocus?”

            Zeke glances out the door again and spots Sharpay’s figure approaching the exit. “That’s a good idea.” Zeke agrees, “It’ll only be ten.” He tosses his apron on a table in the back and exits through the back door, then walks around the building to the front. Standing on the sidewalk with the reflection of the bright city lights making her glow like a pink disco ball, he sheepishly approaches her. “Sharpay?”

            She does a double take between the phone in her hands and Zeke before settling on him, “Do I know you?”

            “It’s Zeke, Troy’s roommate?”

            “Zeke?” She asks, the faintest look of recognition crossing her face.

            “Yeah.” Zeke responds, a hopeful smile merging its way onto his lips.

            “Zeke!” She yells, reaching out to grab him by the collar and pull him close to her face, “You better make damn well sure Troy finishes his book by a week from today!” She orders almost threateningly, “Can I trust you to do that?”

            “Yes!” Zeke nods excitedly, “You can trust me with anything, Sharpay.”

            “Good.” She releases her death grip on his collar and smoothens it out ever so softly for him. Quietly clearing her throat, she steps back away from him and replaces her cellphone in her dazzling, silver clutch. Without a word, she spins back inside the restaurant, leaving Zeke alone on the outside.

            With the remnants of a bright smile still playing on his lips, Zeke reenters the kitchen through the back and speedily ties the apron around his hips.

            “What are you so happy about, cook?” Chef Jacques sneers, pointing at him threateningly with a pair of tongs, “We are behind! Get to work!”  
            “Yes, chef!” Zeke responds, not even Chef’s authoritative leadership hampering his mood. Zeke finally has the perfect opportunity to prove himself to Sharpay and win her over. He just has to make sure Troy finishes his book. Simple enough, right?


	5. Motivation

 

            “Good morning, Starshine!” Zeke yells at the top of his lungs at Troy’s unconscious body cramped up on the couch, “The earth says hello!”

            “What the hell is your problem, dude?” Troy says angrily in a raspy voice, rubbing his eyes tiredly and stretching his limbs out to make them pop.

            “Making sure you get up.” Zeke responds rather happily, gripping onto the blankets covering Troy and tossing them off of him, “Time to rise and shine!”

            “Why?” Troy asks, moving to sit up and place his feet down on the rug beneath him, “I don’t have anything planned for today.”

            “You have a story to finish,” Zeke corrects him. “Now let’s go,” Zeke pulls Troy up by the arm and leads him to the bathroom, “Get clean and get dressed, and then we’ll go down to the café so you can turn coffee into a beautiful ending for your story.” He shuts the door behind him to leave Troy alone to shower, when the door suddenly opens again and Troy peeks his head out.

            “Zeke!” Troy calls.

            “Yeah?”

            “Since when did you take such an interest in my story?”

            “Well,” Zeke’s brown eyes rapidly shoot off down the hallway in thought before he continues, “I think one of the saddest things in the world is a story left unfinished.” He says with a thin, half-hearted smile.

            Staring blankly at Zeke, not believing one word, Troy deduces, “…Sharpay has enlisted you to watch over me, hasn’t she?”

            “Damn it,” Zeke admits, “yes. The pressure is on, Troy! She says she needs it in a week now, not a month.”

            “A week?” Troy asks, his eyes enormous in panic and uncertainty. “How can she expect that? It’s impossible. I’m not…I’m not getting published.” A weak, pathetic whine sounds from his throat as he sinks onto the floor in defeat. He holds his heavy head in his hands with his legs stretched out in front of him.

            “So that’s it, then?” Zeke’s voice begins in the otherwise silent hallway. Lowering down next to Troy, he sits opposite of him and asks, “Are you just giving up, then?”

            First Troy responds with a heavy sigh, and then extrapolates, “I just want to be there already, you know? I hate waiting for this book to be done. I hate not know if I’ll ever actually get there. I just want to be done already and be proud of myself.”

Shaking his head in disagreement, Zeke argues, “You can’t mope around and tell yourself ‘gosh, I’ll be so happy once I’ve accomplished everything’. You have to go out there and get it started! Or in your case, get it finished! You’ll find happiness along the way to being accomplished. Sorry to get all cliché, but it’s true that happiness is a journey, not a destination.” Zeke says, reaching across the hall and patting him on the shoulder.

            “How would you know?” Troy asks doubtingly, shrugging Zeke’s hand off of him.

            “I know because I’m not anywhere near what I’d call accomplished or successful, but I’m still happy. I can’t tell you how, I just am.”

            “I think that’s because you’re just naturally a happier and more hopeful person than I am.”

            “You’ll get there, Troy,” Zeke reassures him. “In the meantime, let’s focus on this book. So…” he claps his hands together, then points to Troy, “What do you need me to do in order to help you?”

            Glancing around at nothing in particular in thought, Troy finally orders him, “Go print off what I have so far at Sharpay’s office, and then meet up with me at Falstaff Café. I’ll send you Sharpay’s office address in a text.”

…

The publishing company’s headquarters is located around fifteen blocks North of their apartment. It only takes Zeke two quick bus rides until he find himself just outside of Sharpay’s office, clearing his throat to catch the attention of the receptionist.

“Oh!” She jumps in her chair, strands of her chestnut colored hair falling out of the messy clip on her head. “I’m so sorry.” She puts a hand on her chest and takes in a deep breath. “How can I help you?”

“It’s alright. Um, my name is Zeke Baylor, I’m a friend of Troy Bolton and I need to speak with Miss. Evans for a moment.”

            “Okay, Zeke Baylor, a friend of Troy Bolton, and what is the matter you’d like to speak with her about?”

            “Printing.”

            “Printing?”

            “Yes, printing.”

            “Alright. Give me just a moment.” The short girl stands from her desk and walks over to the large door to Sharpay’s office.

            “Miss. Evans?” She asks, poking only her head into the office shyly.

            “What is it, Kelsi?” Zeke hears Sharpay bark and smiles to himself.

            “There’s a man here to see you. He said his name is Zeke Bay-” Suddenly, Kelsi’s body flies away from the door as Sharpay pushes her aside en route to Zeke.

            “Do you have it? Is it done?” Sharpay asks, practically backing Zeke up against the wall.

            “No,” Zeke explains. “He told me to print off what he has so far.”

            “Print it off?” Sharpay asks, puzzled, “Why?”

            “I don’t know. He said it was something that will help him.”

            “Well if it’ll get his story done…” Sharpay begins, waving to Zeke to follow her into her office.

Everything this woman touches must somehow magically turn to pink. That’s the only explanation for the blindingly pink state of her office. He can’t be surprised at the sheer amount of pink from the rug on top of the hardwood floor to the wallpaper to even her desk. Her dedication to something as simple as a color brings an admiring smile to Zeke’s face.

“This friend of yours will be the death of me.” Sharpay states, bending over her chair to search her laptop for his story.

“I’m sorry if that’s the case.” Zeke says, lowering himself down into one of her pink armchairs in front of her desk.

Briefly giggling at his comment, she then starts printing off the massive work and stands up straight, her hands resting on her hips. Zeke allows his eyes to trace up her hips to her waist and then her bust, but once his eyes follow up to meet hers, he finds her deep brown ones already locked onto his. Immediately, he shyly looks off to the side table with a writing magazine resting on it.

            “Oh, that’s right!” Sharpay says with a snap of her fingers, “You’re that cook always looking at me through the kitchen door windows.”

            “Well, I wouldn’t say ‘always’.” Zeke blushes, his fingers brushing through the pages of the magazine absentmindedly.

            “Enough for me to notice, evidently.” Sharpay says, crossing over in front of her desk, “So what is it? Is there always something in my teeth?”

            “No,” Zeke chuckles, tilting his head to the side, “it’s not that.”

            “I know it’s not,” Sharpay says, “There’s only one reason for someone to look at me that much.”

            “Yeah?” Zeke says, confident that she knows his feelings for her, he stands up and steps over intimately close to her, “I knew you’d figure it out soon enough.” He caringly caresses her arm in his hand and tenses to pull her in closer, when she suddenly crosses back around her desk.

“Here,” She says, digging through a drawer and taking out a business card, offering it out to him. “Send me your best work.”

“Send you my best work?” Zeke asks, flipping the card around and around in his hand, studying the thing in confusion.

“Yes, then I’ll decide whether or not to represent you.” Sharpay explains. Noticing he still looks confused, she reveals her process; “It was in all the time you spend sitting just beyond the kitchen doors trying to build up the nerves to approach me made it obvious. You’re a writer and you want me to represent you! I know I can be intimidating-”

“Sharpay,” Zeke interrupts her, “that’s not why I’m always looking at you.”

Hearing the printer beep in completion, she quickly crosses over to the punched stack of paper and binds them together. “Well, whatever it is, I have a meeting right now so it’s going to have to wait.” She slides the manuscript into a large manila envelope and hands it off to him, saying, “Just email me. And make damn well sure Troy finishes this story.”

“Okay,” Zeke agrees, peeling his eyes off of Sharpay and leaving the office.

…

            Troy ceases his typing once the café doors swing open and Zeke enters, a thick, page-sized, manila envelope in hand, “Do you have it?” Troy asks. “Do you have the start of the manuscript?”

            “Yeah,” Zeke says, grabbing a chair from a nearby table and dragging it to the other side of Troy’s table. “Why did you need it?” Zeke asks, handing him the manuscript.

            Troy takes out the bound stack of paper and carefully sifts through the pages, his fingertips gently tracing down the paragraphs. “I just wanted to feel it.”

            “And now what?”

            “Now I finish it,” Troy declares, smacking the pages together again.

            “Great! Yes, let’s get to the finishing part.” Zeke wiggles his butt into the chair more comfortably and watches as Troy continues to type on the laptop.

            “Can I get you anything?” The barista asks as she approaches their table, a coffee pot in hand.

            “Do you sell smoothies?” Zeke wonders.

            “Yes, we do.” Gabriella says, cautiously refilling Troy’s cup as she talks to Zeke. “We have banana, strawberry, mango, pineapple, and coconut.”

            “Hmm,” Zeke thinks, rubbing his chin.

            “You can combine flavors, too.” Gabriella says.

            “Oh wow.”    

            “Guys!” Troy snaps suddenly, staring at Gabriella especially, “I’m trying to work.”

            Rolling her eyes, she then leans down to whisper into Zeke’s ear, “I’ll help you at the counter.”

            Once Zeke follows her up to the counter and Troy is left in quietness again, he continues writing.

…

            Once the time hits precisely ten in the morning, Troy’s alarm on his phone erupts in a harmony of bells and whistles. Lazily, he lifts his heavy arm and blindly swats at the coffee table until he feels the familiar shape vibrating in his grasp. After he unlocks the device to shut off the alarm, he quickly dials his psychiatrist’s office.

            “Hi, my name is Troy Bolton and I wanted to make an appointment with the doctor as soon as possible to talk about my medication.”

            “Okay,” the voice responds, and Troy over hears typing and mouse clicking until they speak again, “She’s booked for the next two months. I could put you on the cancellation list, but there’s even a wait on that.”

            “Well, can you help me out with this? I’ve just been getting some really weird side effects. It just exhausts me and makes me super hungry, but hasn’t helped my moods at all.”

            “It can take up to two weeks for the medicine to really take affect on the chemicals in your brain, which would explain why there’s not an immediate change to your moods yet. As far as the tiredness and hunger, you could try taking the medicine in the evening before bed instead of in the morning. Then by the time you wake up, you’ll have slept through the drowsiness and hunger.”

            “Alright, it’s worth a shot. Thank you.”

            “Anytime. Call us if you have anymore concerns.” After that, Troy hangs up the phone and whips out his laptop from its case and begins writing…well, attempting to write. After a half an hour and only a measly sentence to show from it, Troy decides to motivate himself with the feeling of his manuscript, when he makes a startling discovery.

“Zeke?” Troy asks across the apartment. “Where’s the manuscript?”

            “I don’t know,” Zeke answers, his voice muffled by the toothbrush in his mouth. “I thought you had it.”

            “Well, I don’t!” Troy barks back in slight panic, tossing pillows and lifting up magazines in search for the manuscript. Suddenly, a realization strikes Troy and he quickly throws his jacket on and leaves the apartment in a rush.


	6. Quality

            After getting all the customers through the morning rush, Gabriella sets out to clean off the dirty tables stained with drops of espresso like dalmatians. Guiding a fallen lock of hair back behind her ear, she adjusts the straps on the apron tighter around her hips. Just as she finishes scrubbing the first in the herd of tables, a familiar man approaches her.

            “Excuse me,” Troy says, slightly out of breath, “I left something here yesterday in a big manila envelope. Have you seen it? It’s very important to me.”

            “Yes,” She responds, much to his surprise. “I have it behind the counter.”

            Troy intently watches her as she walks behind the counter and sets the spray bottle and rag down. Then, she lifts up a thick stack of paper and guides it back into the manila envelope and bands it shut. Turning back to Troy, she sets it down on the front counter between them. “Here you go.”

            “Why was it out of its envelope?” Troy asks interrogatingly. His eyes study her movements as she looks away guilty and bites down on her lip. Then, he realizes something. “Did you read it?”

            Her face flashes a deep red before she starts to explain herself, “I…”

            Abruptly snatching the manuscript off the counter, his steps are heavy with anger as he storms out of the café.

…

            “I can’t believe that nosey barista!” Troy says, tossing his laptop bag and manuscript on the coffee table with a thud.

            “What happened?” Zeke asks, peeking his head into the hallway from his room.

            “That Gabriella girl had my manuscript lying open on the counter. She read it!”

            “Isn’t that what you want?” Zeke leaves his room shirtless in only a pair of sweatpants and saunters over to his laptop on the coffee table, “People reading your work?”

            “After it’s completed and they pay for it.” Troy differentiates, curiously watching Zeke as he sits down on the sofa with his own laptop. “What could you possibly be working on?”

            “An email to Sharpay.” Zeke answers plainly.

            “Why are you and Sharpay corresponding?” Troy wonders, taking a seat next to Zeke and looking over at the drafted email.

            “She’s noticed me looking at her in the restaurant and wants me to tell her why.”

            “You’re going to tell her you like her in an email? Dude, that’s so unromantic. You need to ask her out face to face because that shows confidence. Trust me.”

            “You think that will work?”

            “Definitely!”

…

Gabriella tops off a regular’s cup of coffee at his table, and then reclaims her spot behind the counter. She begins pouring hot water into the white mugs to wipe some of the grime and stains out with a rag, a cheap trick Ms. Falstaff taught her. When suddenly, a cool breeze washes over her from the opening door. She glances over her shoulder at the customer and gently places the cup in her hand on the drying rack. She sheepishly approaches the register and waits for the man to order.

Glancing at the board above her head, he briefly considers switching up his order. Meeting her eyes, he says, “The usual.”

            Nodding, she quickly grabs a clean mug from the drying rack and fills it with fresh coffee from the pot. She carefully sets the mug down on a platter and pushes it towards him. Glancing up to watch him, she notices him looking down at the coffee in conflict. Her eyes widen in worry and she opens her mouth to speak. “This isn’t your usual, is it?”

            “No, it is…for a pleasant change.”

            An awkward silences plays between the two of them for a moment before she asks, “Then what’s the issue?”

            Troy lets in a deep breath, and then out a heavy sigh. He leans onto the counter and says more calmly than he really is, “The issue is that you read my story without my permission.”

            “Look, I’m sorry.” Gabriella says, bringing a hand up to her heart in sincerity. “Curiosity got the best of me, but that’s no excuse. I really am sorry.”

            Slowly, Troy begins to nod in acceptance and continues, “Well, there’s nothing being mad over it will do to change it now. I might as well get some feedback from you. So, what’d you think?”

            Gabriella looks up to the dirty light fixture above in thought before saying, “It surprised me.”

            “How? It’s not a mystery or anything.”

            “Not the story, the quality of the writing. I mean you’re good, _actually_ good. This whole time I thought you were just another wannabe author wasting his life writing crap over cheap, equally crappy coffee. It surprised me.”

            The faintest smile crawls onto his face as he says, “Thanks.”

            “I mean it. I can tell you put a lot of thought into it. There’s a continuous flow to it that makes it hard to put down. It’s quality stuff. I have to know, how does it end?”

            “I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine.”

            “You could kill someone off.”

            “The story doesn’t have anything to do with death. That’s not where the plot is headed at all.”

            “Exactly. No one would see it coming.”

            Forgetting the coffee on the counter, Troy rushes to his table and immediately whips out his laptop to write.

…

            Sitting alone in a pink gown, Sharpay daintily sips at her glass of champagne alone in the restaurant. Her manicured fingers swipe and tap away at the device in her hands as she waits for her steak.

_From: Troy Bolton_

_Subject: Progress_

_Shar,_

_It’s done. The last chapter is in the attachments._

            Leaning onto her elbow on the table, she smiles to herself and says, “Fabulous”.

            “Sharpay,” a voice says from behind her. She slowly twists her torso and looks over her shoulder at a tall man, decked out in a tuxedo.

            “Zeke?” She asks, her eyes wide in surprise. “Wha-? Why are you-? Are you working right now?”

            “No. I came in to see you.” Zeke says, wringing his hands together nervously, “Well, I was hoping I’d run into you.”

            “Do you want to take a seat?” Sharpay offers, unsure of what else to do.

            “Yes.” Zeke agrees, taking his seat and glancing around the restaurant in awe. “Wow,”

            “What do you mean, ‘wow’? You work here.” Sharpay laughs, “Why are you so impressed?”

            “I’ve never been out in the front like this,” Zeke explains, “The only glimpse of the place I get is through that kitchen window. It’s such a different atmosphere being on this side of the doors.”

            “So…you got all dressed up so you could join me and sit in the dining area?” Sharpay asks, his intentions still lost on her.

            “No,” Zeke chuckles. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he says, “I came here to talk to you about why I’m looking at you.”

            “Zeke, please, let’s save business for business hours.”

            “That’s just it, Sharpay. I don’t want business between us.”

            “Then what do you want?”

            “I want…” Zeke sighs, frustrated with how difficult it is to just tell her. “I want to get to know you, as friends, then potentially more than friends. I just- I see you and I feel this potential for something more. I know we barely know each other, but it’s like my instinct is stearing me right into you. I want to know ”

            “Oh,” Sharpay’s brown eyes widened as big as saucers. “I had no idea you felt that way.”

            “I know.” Zeke smirks.

            “Well, that’s very kind of you, but” Sharpay quickly reconsiders and shrugs, “What the hell. I’ll let you stay. Why not?”

 


	7. Movement

            “Zeke!” He hears the woman screech at the top of her lungs at what he estimates to be her third faked orgasm this morning. Impatience and anger burns in the pit of his stomach as his hot palms clench at the comforter on top of him, when suddenly, her yells subside. Troy decides he has missed his opportunity and rather than confronting them, he pulls his soft blankets back up to his neck and attempts to fall asleep again.

            When another ungodly loud moan erupts across the apartment, his eyes snap open and he forcefully flings the sheets off his body and makes his way to Zeke’s bedroom door in four long strides.

            “Get dressed and open the door! We need to talk!” He yells, waiting as his teeth gnaw at his lower lip.

            “Yeah, man?” Zeke cracks the door open, rubbing his neck tiredly.

            “This has got to stop. You two are so loud and it’s been disrupting my sleep this whole last month. It’s ridiculous!”

            “I know man, I get it-” Zeke begins to explain.

            “No you don’t! If you understood, you wouldn’t keep doing it because you’d see how freaking inconsiderate you’re being.”

            “Troy, can I say something?” Zeke restarts. “I am sorry for disrupting your sleep. We will work on it.”

            “I don’t think you will,” Troy challenges him. “So you know, I’m looking for new apartments soon.” He turns on his heal and approaches the short bookshelf in the hall holding all his clothes. After getting dressed, Troy gathers his essentials (his laptop and his slowly growing manuscript) and departs the apartment.

            Upon hearing the front door shut from her place in the bed, the blonde asks her boyfriend, “Is he gone?”

            “Yep.” Zeke shuts the bedroom door behind him as he turns back for the bed and his girlfriend trapped deep in its snuggly confines.

            “For good?” She asks.

            “Not quite.”

            “What is taking him so long?” She rolls her eyes and moves her body out from underneath the twisted up comforter. “I wasn’t expecting him to be so resilient.”

            “Me neither,” He raises his arms out and falls back on the bed with a thud.

            “No kidding,” She says, crossing the room to his dresser and fishes out one of his plain white T-shits. “You said I could move in within two weeks. It’s been five.”

            “What can I say?” Zeke says, using his calloused hands to rub his tired eyes, “He’s too desperate for cheap rent! It’s not like you’re doing much to help encourage him to move. When is he going to get paid? That’d certainly expand his ramen noddle budget.”

            “An extension was the best I could do!” Sharpay argues, her slender figure moving beneath the oversized shirt towards the bed again, “That alone is worth something money can’t buy: time. I have never been able to convince my boss to wait on a story before. It was totally unprecedented.”

            “Oh, goodie! Lets ask around and see if we can find a landlord who accepts unprecedented work extensions!”

            “None of this would be necessary if you would just talk to him, but that would be too simple, wouldn’t it?”

            “I told you, it’s very complicated, Shar…I know he wouldn’t take it well. He’d see it as an attack. I can’t make him feel like I’m kicking him out, or that I don’t believe in him.”

            “Troy’s reaction to your expression of your wants is not your problem.”

“Fine,” Zeke says. “If he hasn’t found a place by this time next week, I’ll talk to him and help get him out sooner.”

“Thank you. I’d like a morning off from moaning duty, you know.”

\---

            Troy shoves his cold, nearly numb fingers deep into his pockets while quietly cursing at himself for forgetting a sweater. This New York City fall has been prematurely and unforgivingly cold. The leaves had barely a week to change colors before falling and leaving the trees naked against the sharp, chilly air. Troy passes by the wooden skeletons of what was once a vibrantly green scenery as he treks the few blocks to Falstaff Café.

            Finally reaching the familiar spot, he quickly pulls the door open and steps inside. He scans the slanted menu out of sheer habit as he crosses the black and white linoleum tile towards the counter.

            “Good morning,” Gabriella says, her hands full of steaming white mugs. She slides them into the cabinet above the sink and pivots to face Troy, wiping her damp hands on her apron before shaking the cash register awake.

            “Hey, Gabriella.”

            “Hey,” she says, resorting to more forceful shakes on the register. “C’mon,” she murmurs before hitting her fist down against the top of its metal.

            “That register still owe you money, eh?” Troy jokes.

            “You could say that.” She responds. She raises her closed fist once more to bring it down on the machine yet again, when its light finally flashes on just before she could. “There we go. The usual?”

            “Please.”

            “One, fifty.”

            “Of course,” Troy says, handing off two dollar bills, “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone looking for a roommate, would you?”

            “Afraid I don’t,” Gabriella says while grabbing a warm mug and pouring fresh coffee into it. “You could check online.”

            “No, thanks. I’m not about ready to trust craigslist with finding me a respectable roommate.”

            “Fair enough,” She places the mug on the counter for him. “I wish you luck.”

            “Thanks…I got the newest version for you.” Troy says, bringing out a manila envelope from his laptop case and removing a stapled portion from it.

            “Ooh, gimme!” Gabriella cutely clenches for the papers in Troy’s hands.

            “Fifth time’s the charm, right?” Troy lays the papers in Gabriella’s eager hands.

            “Yeah, I think that’s how the saying goes.” She lays the papers on the counter and leans over them on her elbows to read. After quickly making her way through the first few pages of this version’s ending, she feels a giggle rise in her throat and must try her hardest to suppress it.

            “I’ll try again,” Troy says, snatching back the copy.

            “Wait!” Gabriella commands. “Let me finish it at least.”

            “You’re laughing. That can’t be a good sign.”

            “It’s just funny reading how you imagine a mugger’s threats. He says, ‘I’m gonna pop a cap in your ass’ at least twice. It was plenty ridiculous the first time. Do you think anyone actually says that?”

            “I wouldn’t know, Gabriella. What do you want? I’ve never been mugged before. Are you the expert on mugger threats now? Do you know a mugger I could interview about the mugging process?”

            “Yeah, I have mine on speed dial.”

            “Seriously, Gabi, how am I going to find a way to kill him? Car accident was too predictable, cancer was too sad, drowning was too cruel, fallen satellite was too random, and murder is too funny apparently. What else is there?”

            “He kills himself.”

            “You think?”

            “Worth a try,” she says. “Good luck.”

            “Thanks.”

\---

_Three Days Later_

            The keys clang and rattle against each other as he sifts through them in search of the correct one. He gets the door open and uses his heals to kick off his slip-proof shoes and lands them softly on the hardwood floor. The dim light from the microwave’s clock would be his usual aid in maneuvering through the apartment, but tonight, a light shines from the hallway. Zeke enters the further into the apartment to find Troy gathering his piles of clothing from the bookshelf.

            “Hey man, what’s going on?” Zeke asks.

            “Whoa,” Troy jumps, startled. He sets his stack of underwear back on the lower shelf he was squatting down by and stands. “I didn’t think you’d be home for another hour.”

            “Chef let me off early,” Zeke explains.

            “Well, we can talk about this in the morning if you’re tired.”           

            “Not at all, what’s going on?” Zeke asks, leaning his weight onto the wall.

            “Well, I’ve just been thinking a lot about our housing situation and decided it’d be best for the both of us if we didn’t room together any longer.”

            “Really? I hope you don’t feel like Sharpay and I are kicking you out.’

            “I don’t,” Troy reassures him. “This was my choice. And I’m sorry for backing out so last minute, but I just had to make a move before I exploded.”

            “No worries, man. I mean, I understand why you’d want to go given the noise. It’s probably saving our friendship that we end this now.”

            “True. And man, I have to thank you for helping me out so much since I moved here.”

            “Don’t mention it. That’s what friends are for. So, when are you moving?”

            “I can move in tomorrow.”

            “That’s pretty quick. Is it an okay place?”

            “Well, you see…it’s a shithole,” Troy laughs.

            “Shittier than this one, if possible?”

            “Yes, actually.”

            “Nevertheless, I’m glad you’re finding your footing, man,” Zeke smiles.

            “Thank you. If I don’t see you in the morning, just know that I appreciate what you’ve done for me and I wish the best for both you and Sharpay.”

            “Thanks man, have a good night.”

            “You too.”


	8. Collaboration

            Troy’s new apartment, barely bigger than a Midwestern master bathroom in size, sits above a perpetually congested intersection just three blocks south of Times Square. Yellow-tinted residue from water damage stains the otherwise white ceilings above. Heavy steps and doors slamming shut in the building are heard through the paper thin walls. Amongst its countless other issues, Troy nevertheless feels a sense of pride for leasing the micro-apartment.

            He eagerly slides his new key into the lock with ease and pushes the door open, dropping the heavy bag of clothing off his raw shoulder. It takes him only a few strides atop the chipped oak floors to get to the window on the opposite side of the residency. He takes the warning sticker into little consideration before opening the massive window and stepping onto the narrow balcony.

            His fingers wrap around the cool, prickly metal of the railing poking at his palm like dull needles. “Don’t jump!” A nearby voice yells at him.

            “Jesus Harold Christ!” He yells in reflex and looks over at the source of his scare, the recognition of the individual doing little to calm his raising heart. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

            “Didn’t you read the sticker on the window?” Gabriella says, her long pajama pants gathering at her feet as she walks along the connected balcony towards him, “You’re not supposed to open your window, let alone walk out here.”

            “If you tell on me, you’re imprisoning yourself, too.” Troy says, dropping down to sit amongst the discarded cigarette butts on the cement with his back against the smog-stained brick building.

            “I don’t want to tell on you,” Gabriella carefully lowers herself next to him, cautious not to drop any crumbs from the large brownie in her hands. She folds her legs underneath herself and gazes across the street to the neighboring building.

            “Then why did you yell?” Troy asks.

            “I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t jump. That’s a lot of therapy I don’t have time for.”

            “Oh, is that so?” Troy smiles. “What about me, huh?”

            “I don’t think there’d be much of you left to care about, I’m afraid. I don’t imagine brain matter splattered like that would sew back together very nicely.”

            Troy smirks, “what is that?” He asks, nodding his head towards the fat chunk of brownie still remaining in her hands.

            “Brownie,” Gabriella answers plainly. “The best baker in all of Manhattan just so happens to live directly next door to you.”

            “Can I have a bite?”

            “Do you have an ending for me?”

            “No,” Troy mopes, “I haven’t had the time to write with the move and all.”

            “Well, consider this your new motivation. Once you give me an ending, then I’ll personally bake you the best tray of brownies in the entire East coast.”

            “I’m afraid that might never happen,” Troy admits.

            “What do you mean?”

            “I cannot get into the mindset of a suicidal man. I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know how flinging myself off a ledge like this could ever be appealing.”

            “You mean you’ve never considered it? Not even in high school?”

            “No. Have you?”

            “We’re talking about you.”

            “I already told you, I can’t do so much as _imagine_ contemplating suicide. Of course I’ve never actually considered it. I need someone else’s perspective. Help me. What do you think it’d be like?”

            “I’m sorry Troy, but I can’t do what you’re asking me to,” Gabriella stands and retreats to her window, “I don’t allow myself to think about that anymore.”

            “You…?” He trails off.

            “Goodnight, Troy.”

            “Goodnight.”

            With quick, graceful movements, Gabriella slides back into her micro apartment; she pulls the unruly curtains back inside, and closes the window.

            He remains in his spot, his fingers gliding atop the glossy finish of the black concrete beneath him. _Why would I kill myself?_ He asks himself, _why would anyone kill themself?_ His body stays sedentary on the balcony twenty stories high, while his imagination pursues any direction for his story’s ending.

…

_Three Days Later_

            Troy had spent his entire day on the balcony yet again, only abandoning post for bathroom breaks and to gather food to eat outside. The air was still and windless while the clouds above permitted plentiful rays of sunlight to shine down in the most ideal condition for finishing his book. What wasn’t ideal was a barricade the size of the Great Wall of China positioned between he and his desired ending. No matter how many times he wrote and rewrote the ending, his red pen was quicker to scribble over any perceived progress. Now, long after the sun has taken its fall into the West, Troy closes his eyes and leans his heavy head back against the bricks.

            “Brownie?” Gabriella says.

            The sudden scare makes his eyes open as wide as saucers and forces his breath to become lodged in his throat. He glances to the source and finds a brunette leaning out of her window with a brownie at the end of her outstretched arm. “You nearly scared me the shit of out me.”

            “How? I thought you heard me,” Gabriella nimbly pulls herself the through the window and scoots along the concrete to her spot next to him. “You didn’t look asleep,” she offers the brownie out to him again.

            Troy shakes his head and says solemnly, “Thanks, but I don’t feel like I deserve it yet.”

            “Fair enough,” she shrugs, opens her nearly drooling mouth, and places the brownie between her teeth. Just as quickly, she lowers the whole treat back into her lap and folds it up in a napkin, “I feel the same.”

            “How was Falstaff’s?” Troy asks.

            “Horribly understaffed,” Gabriella says, mindlessly poking her fingers into the chunk of soft brownie. “Her niece is still on maternity leave, but they won’t hire someone to take over her hours. So I’m the one getting stuck with all her shifts,” she stretches out her legs through the bars of the railing to pop her knees in demonstration of her overused body.

            “Are you in school, too?” Troy asks.

            “Not currently, I had to leave,” Gabriella quickly changes the subject. “How’s the ending coming?”

            “Still at zero.” Troy pauses, playing with a thought for a moment before saying, “A few days ago out here, you acted like you might have some…insight.”

            “Do you remember what else I told you?” Gabriella asks.

            “That you don’t allow yourself to think like that anymore.”

            “Yup.”

            “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.”

            “No.” Gabriella quietly stands and retires to her apartment without another word.

…

_From: sharpayevans_

_Subject: Re: Re: Ending_

_Troy –_

_We’re getting uncomfortably close to the deadline, the final deadline. I cannot get another extension for your story. I would hate to see you go on unrepresented if I don’t have an ending in my possession by this time next week. Please find the inspiration you need to complete your story, or risk losing my representation._

_Best of luck,_

_Sharpay Evans_


	9. Contemplation

**Trigger warning** : This chapter features dialogue on suicide and suicide contemplation. Please do not continue reading if you think discussion of this topic might put you at risk for endangering your health or safety.

…

 

            He sits at his habitual spot at the irreversibly wobbly table underneath the soft hum of other patrons’ fingers dashing across their keyboards. His fingers, by contrast, remain folded together as they rest on his chin. His reddened eyes blankly gaze at his dying laptop from atop dark bags of skin. The vertical dash blinks on the empty document in anticipation of his commencement, taunting him with its dance of disappearance and reappearance.

            His eyes dart away from the white document to look towards the still full, now cold cup of coffee next to the laptop on his table. Suddenly, a figure in an apron and wielding a pot of coffee approaches his table.

            “What’s wrong?” Gabriella frowns at the full cup of black coffee.

            “Just trying to finish the story.”

            “Well,” she sighs. “You can’t do that without a hot cup of coffee.”

            “Nor without entering the mind of a suicidal man,” Troy pouts.

            “I can only help with the coffee, Troy,” Gabriella gently reminds him.

            “I know. I wasn’t – I wasn’t asking for you to…” Troy clears his throat.

            “Let me take care of this for you.” Gabriella gathers the cup of coffee and disappears behind the cluttered counter.

            Troy rubs his hands on his oily face momentarily before noticing an overwhelmingly pink figure approaching his table from the door. He automatically stands in retreat, but cannot hide from her quickly enough.

            “Sit,” she orders, pressing her hand on his shoulder to push him back into his chair.

            “Nice seeing you, too, Sharpay.” Troy says as he lands back in the metal chair with a thud.

            “It would be a nicer encounter for both of us if you had-”

            “Shar-” Troy raises his hand in an attempt to shush her.

            “If you had an ending for me, Troy!” She raises her shrill voice over his. “I put my head on the chopping block for you. This is the first time my boss has trusted my instinct to wait on a story. If I don’t deliver, he’ll never give me another chance like this again. It’s not just our representation on the line.”

            “I’m trying my hardest.”

            “Just choose a different ending that you can actually write.”

            “Absolutely not,” Troy shakes his head, “I will not give up on this.”

            “Evidently your stubbornness cannot match that of your ending. ”

            “Yes, it will,” He holds a determined stare into her eyes. “I refuse to send you anything less than perfect. You should be rejoicing at my ‘stubbornness’, as you call it.”

            “I’ll be rejoicing when I have an acceptable ending.”

            “I wouldn’t give you anything less.”

            “I pray to God that’s the case.” Her snooty nose guides her slender body up to a stand. She takes a glance at the electronic watch on her thin wrist, and says, “Thirty-eight hours, fifty-two minutes, and seventeen seconds until our time is up. Tick tock, Troy. Get me an ending.”

            Once the blonde has departed, the barista sheepishly approaches his table again, “That looked bad,” Gabriella says.

            “It…Um, it was,” Troy chuckles wearily.

            “Here,” Gabriella sets a fresh cup of coffee on his table and carefully removes her hands as it settles slightly lopsided.

            “Thank you, but I was thinking of heading out,” Troy responds, closing his bulky laptop.

            “You’re leaving already?”

            “You mean before two in the morning?” Troy smiles. “Yes, I actually am.”

            “I mean – yeah, you should head out and finish your ending.”

            “I was thinking more about sleeping.”

            “Okay, you should do that, too,” Gabriella agrees.

            “Okay.” Troy smiles back at her before departing the café and setting off towards his apartment.

…

            Although he had been pondering the story for nearly the last twenty hours straight, its persistence was yet to expire, and nothing could protect him from its unrelenting reminders. The drugs that once fatigued his body and mind aren’t enough to lull him to sleep anymore; the pressure to finish his story electrocutes his fading nervous system with intermittent shocks of anxiety.

            A sudden knock on his window captures his attention and he orders his heavy body to approach it. He pulls the ragged curtain to the side and spots the brunette on his balcony. His lips tiredly twitch up to form a small smile as he opens the window fully.

            “Did you sleep well?” Gabriella asks, briskly hopping down from the ledge and into Troy’s space.

            “Gabi, I’m sorry, but I still have to work on the ending.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I overheard everything between you and Sharpay last night. If I had known it was that serious, I would have come to you sooner. I don’t want you to lose your agent, regardless of how much of a bitch she can be. You deserve to be represented, and your story belongs in every bookstore across the nation. I’m here to help you finish your story, if you still want my help.”

            “Of course I want your help, but I thought you said that you don’t allow yourself to think about those things anymore. I don’t want to push you into doing something would put you at risk,” Troy says, rubbing the back of his neck in fatigue and conflict.

            “You’re not pushing me, Troy. I want to share this with you.”

            “Are you sure? Honestly, I’d rather keep you safe.”

            “Troy, I’m certain I want to do this.”

            “As long as you’re sure.”

“I am,” Gabriella reassures him.

“Alright,” Troy says, crossing the room to his little kitchenette and reaching into a drawer to retrieve a small notepad, “Is it alright if I take notes?”

            “Yeah, that’s fine,” Gabriella says. She gathers her long, flowing skirt in her fist and raises herself to sit on Troy’s bed. “I want to address selfishness first.”

            “Okay,” Troy says, pulling the single dining chair next to the bed and taking a seat.

            “So many people see suicide as a selfish act, but I disagree,” Gabriella starts. “I think that people who call it selfish are ignorant – and blissfully so. That misjudgment stems from their inability to imagine wanting to kill yourself, and therefore, their inability to understand the pain that’s pushing so many people into doing it.

            “It’s the pain that gets to you,” Gabriella pauses, the sound of Troy’s pen on his notepad reminding her of the countless therapy sessions. “We don’t just wake up one day and decide to kill ourselves out of nowhere. We wouldn’t want to kill ourselves if we didn’t have the pain.”

            “What kind of pain do you mean?” Troy asks, continuing onto the next page of the small pad.

            “Depends on the person and their illness. Could be anxiety, could be depression. Could be screaming voices and dismembered heads only they can see. Take your pick.”

            “Continue.”

            “I love life. I loved mine before I attempted and I’ve loved it since. So many pleasant things exist when you’re living; happiness, joy, hope. Love. I’ve experienced something as magnificent and wonderful as love, but the pain was intolerable enough that I’d rather lose any chance of experiencing love again than endure the pain for one moment longer.

            “I knew how my choice would hurt others. I was fully aware of the pain I’d be causing. I knew it’d hurt my family and that thought was actually what made me change my mind. I didn’t want my mom to hurt. I didn’t want my mother to mourn me. I didn’t want to be the cause of her pain. It was too late when I finally thought about that and regretted it. I had already consumed the pills and was fading, quick. I don’t remember calling the ambulance, but apparently I did because I woke up in the hospital. In the end, I suppose you don’t need to know the pain to know suicide, you just need to know love and willingly losing it forever to end something horrendous.”

            Troy ceased his note taking – the last syllables of Gabriella’s words lingering in the intimate air between them.

            “Do you have everything you need?” Gabriella asks, unfolding her arms from across her chest.

            “Yes,” Troy responds. “I think so. Thank you.”

            “Good,” Gabriella says. She stands, the light fabric of her long skirt spreading out to her feet again. “I’ll leave you alone to finish it.”

            “Okay,” Troy responds quietly while his eyes follow her small frame as she climbs out the window.

            “Gabi!” Troy yells, running to the window and sticking his head out into the night sky. “If you need me tonight, or any time for that matter, please reach out.”

            “Thank you, Troy.” Gabriella says before turning back to disappear through her window.


	10. The Fate of The Ending

            The brown and purple sacks of skin drape beneath his lightless blue eyes. The man sits in a leather armchair across a pink desk from the woman quickly skimming through the document he had brought her. Those pages, the one she holds in her manicured hands, cost him his sleep, appetite, and nearly, his sanity. He had labored over each word, each punctuation with borderline obsessive attention. He sacrificed the last two months of his life in pursuit of this ending, all to hear her say, “I don’t approve of this.”

            “I knew you wouldn’t, but I’m afraid there’s no more time for revision,” Troy responds, “ _Tick tock_ , as you say.”

            “It appears that I’ve traded disappointing my boss with no ending for disappointing my boss with a bad one,” Sharpay sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose between her fingertips and leaning back into her chair.

            “Thanks.”

            “Why can’t he just live happily ever after, Troy?” Sharpay asks exasperatedly.

            “Not every story has to be happy ever after.”

            “Stories that sell do,” Sharpay responds.

            “My story will sell just fine.”

            “Do you know why people buy books, Troy?” She glares at him, “Do you know why people consume media? To forget about their sad, depressing lives for just a moment and peer into the life of someone who overcame. People live sad stories, they don’t buy them.”

            “They will if they don’t know what’s coming.”

            “I’m not here to argue marketability with you!” Sharpay screams, punching her fist down on the desk between them. “I know what’s marketable, Troy! It’s my job! I gave you extension and multiple attempts to finish what I _thought_ would be a good ending, and you come into my office with this pile of crap, trying to tell me it isn’t as bad as it smells?”

            “Miss. Evans?” The assistant speaks softly from the doorway, not daring to fully enter the room. “Mr. Harper is on the line for you.”

            Sharpay groans a low, guttural growl before draping her long fingers over the spine of the rhinestone-covered phone and bringing it up to her ear, saying, “Hello Mr. Harper – Yes, yes I – Well, of course, I – I have the author right here in my office. He’s just given me the file. – Okay, I – Sure, I’ll send it right away…Thank you.”

            “He wants it now,” Sharpay says, a tone of defeat in her low voice.

            “I’ve done my part,” Troy sends Sharpay a sarcastic smile and wave in farewell before standing to leave.

…

            Troy clenches his jaw and braces his heavy shoulders against the icy wind passing through the city today. He squints his eyes against the freezing breeze as it bites into the exposed skin of his face. He jogs along the crosswalk and quickly shuffles up to the door of the familiar spot and throws it open.

            The single barista glances over her shoulder expectantly at the door that had just blown open. A joyous smile spreads across her face as the man approaches the counter, “Hey! How’s it going?” She asks.

            “You know…” Troy says, removing his frozen fingers from his pockets and leaning onto the counter, “Just turned in the last chapter.”

            “And?” Gabriella asks, staring at him intently.

            “She absolutely hated it,” Troy shakes his head, “I got an earful about marketability.”

            Gabriella slouches her shoulders forward in disappointment while her eyes begin watering sympathetically. “People will want to read your story, Troy. It’s beautiful,” she calmly reassures him.

            “Thanks,” Troy smiles, “I’ll be okay.”

            “Can I get you anything?” Gabriella offers. “The usual?”

            “No, thanks. I just wanted to stop by and update you. I got a ton of sleep to catch up on.”

            “Okay,” Gabriella tensely squeezes her fingers together behind her back; “I’ll see you later,” she says.

            “For sure,” Troy agrees before removing himself from the café and setting out back to his apartment.

            Her eyes linger on her favorite patron until he disappears beyond the windows. She then reaches for the tall mug of black coffee hidden behind the coffeepots and espresso machine and pours it down the sink.

…

            _“I can’t say I’m surprised,” the man says, a smug smirk on his face._

_“I’m sorry, Dad.” Troy says, his bags feeling heavier and heavier each passing second that he stands on the porch of his parents’ home._

_“You thought you could be a writer. Now you have to move back home with mom and dad. Could you be any bigger of a loser if you tried?”_

_“I – I’m hungry, dad. Just let me in!”_

_“You’re sleeping outside!” His voice boomed across the Albuquerque suburbs. He raised his leg and kicked Troy square in the chest, sending him and his bags flying backwards off the stoop._

            “Troy!” A muffled voice yells into the apartment.

            Troy shoots up from his couch and spins towards the door, fearing it to be Sharpay out of habit. He jumps when the sound of soft knocks come from the window behind him. He turns around and spots a figure crouching down by his window on the balcony outside, the streetlights from behind her obscuring her face. He exhales in relief and approaches the window to open it.

“Haven’t you gotten enough sleep?” She asks.

            “Umm,” Troy pokes his head out the window into the dark air around her, “this might sound like a weird question…but what day is it?”

            “It’s Wednesday evening.”

            “Shit…” Troy laughs unbelievingly, “I slept the whole day.”

            “That was probably for the best. You look good – I mean…better, you know, without the bags.”

            “Thank you, Gabi.” Troy smiles.

            “You wanna come out?”

            “You sure you don’t want to come inside? It’s nearly freezing.”

            Gabriella’s face lights up as she proudly exclaims, “I have that taken care of!”

            “Okay,” Troy unconfidently responds. He lifts his body up to the window and out onto the balcony. To the left of their position, he finds a nest of pillows and blankets placed at their usual spot.

            “This is really nice,” Troy says, trailing behind Gabriella as she settles into the cozy nest. “How was work?”

            “Busy, like always,” Gabriella groans, covering herself with her end of the comforter.

            “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you distracted,” Troy teases. He drops down to the concrete surface of the balcony and snuggles into his side of the pillows and comforter, when a sudden buzz from his jacket pocket alerts him of a call. Troy removes the device from his pocket, glances at the caller ID, and says, “Oh shit.”

            “What?”

            “It’s them.” Troy says, his heart racing in his chest at the implications of the approaching conversation. The sacrifices he made to pursue his dream of getting published were exponential; he abandoned his nearly complete studies and relocated to a new city thousands of miles away. Now, he can finally know whether or not his impulsivity paid off.

            “Hello?” Troy speaks into the phone, “Hello, sir! It’s nice to finally speak with you directly…Okay…I see…No, no, I understand… I realize the difficulty in marketing something like this…Yeah, I know that sales are important…Okay…Well, thank you and Sharpay for the opportunity…Goodbye.” Troy slowly brings his phone into his lap. “They dropped me.”

            “Troy, I’m so sorry.”

            “Yeah…” Troy leans his head back and gazes blankly at the black night sky above.

            “Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise,” Gabriella says, “I mean, would you want to tie yourself to an agent like Sharpay who practically stalks you like prey until you give her what she wants? And the publishing agency itself, they obviously value sales over the creator’s autonomy. I’m sorry you lost representation, but you don’t want it from someone like them...God, what am I saying? Of course you want representation! I’m so sorry this happened.” Gabriella drops her head in defeat.

            “Hey, it’s nothing I can’t overcome,” Troy puts his warm hand on her shoulder consolingly, “Like you said, Sharpay wasn’t a good agent. She was suffocating me. Right, Gabi?”

            “I don’t know,” Gabriella shakes her head in conflict, “maybe I’m just trying to convince myself that this is for the best because I feel guilty.”

            “Why do you feel guilty? You didn’t reject me.”

            “Because I – well, I can’t help but feel at least a little responsible for what’s happened.”

            “You mean them not liking the ending?”

            “Yes. You wouldn’t have gone for the sudden death approach if it weren’t for my suggestion.”

            “Gabriella, you and I both know that the ending was nothing short of literary perfection. I don’t blame you one bit for Sharpay and her idiot boss dropping me. This was not your fault.”

            “I’ll try to believe that.”

            “I believe that,” Troy says decidedly.

            “Thanks,” Gabriella says, smiling up at him.

            “So,” Troy says, removing his hand from her shoulder and dropping it back down into his lap, “What now?”

            “That’s a good question,” Gabriella giggles, “Gosh, we spent so much time on your story, what do we do now that it’s done?”

            “Well, I don’t know about the future, but tonight…it’s about dinner time. Do you wan-?”

            “Yes.” Gabriella anxiously answers, “Wait, do you mean…?”

            “Do I mean what?” Troy asks.

            “I – never mind,” Gabriella springs to her feet and quickly begins gathering her pillows and blanket. “Forget it,” she murmurs.

            “No, it’s okay,” Troy stands. “Say what you were going to say.”

            “I just…” Gabriella pauses, “Did you mean go out to dinner as in…as in…you know…as in, like…”

            “…Like, as in a date?” Troy says.

            Gabriella nods, twiddling with the fabric of her comforter between her fingers nervously. She sheepishly lowers his head and averts her eyes from his, instead peering across the street at a neighboring building and leans her hip against the iron railing. “Do you? I mean – I’d like a date…with you…I’d like to date you, is what I’m trying to say.”

            “I’d like to date you, too,” Troy smiles.

            “Great,” she laughs. “That’s great, I’ll take these inside and get ready then.”

            “Sounds good,” Troy says.

            “Okay,” Gabriella awkwardly shuffles along the balcony railing back towards her window. It just so happens to be in this very moment, as Troy crouches back inside his apartment, that the rusted iron bars of the railing give away under her weight. The unwavering pull of gravity propels her backwards as she releases a terrified, deafening scream. She instinctively holds onto the bars of the collapsing railing as she and it go over the ledge.

            Hearing some commotion outside, Troy glances out of his window. His heart sinks down to his gut when he spots a concerning gap in the railing. “Gabriella!” Troy screams, opening his window and flinging himself onto the balcony. He rushes over to where Gabriella once was and drops to his knees. He cautiously sticks his head over the ledge, his breath caught in his throat.

            He sees Gabriella dangling from the collapsed railing by just one hand. “Gabriella!” He yells, “Give me your other hand!” He lays flat on his stomach and reaches one hand down to her.

            Gabriella looks above to Troy’s hand with tears streaming from her eyes. She latches her hand onto his wrist and is slowly lifted back onto the balcony and into safety. “I thought I was going to die!” She sobs hysterically.

            “You’re safe,” Troy holds her into his chest as he wills his heart to stop racing. “Let’s get you inside.”

            Gabriella crawls along the bare ledge back to her window and forcefully pushes it open. She wastes no time getting inside, willingly falling into the apartment. Troy steps over Gabriella to enter the room and immediately drops down to her position on the floor and wraps his arms around her.

            “I can’t believe that just happened,” Troy says in shock, his heart still beating forcibly against his ribcage.

            “Maybe we should have listened to that warning sticker after all,” Gabriella states dryly.

            “I just want to get a drunk and forget that this ever happened.”

            “I think we’ve both earned a drink or two after that.”

            “Seriously,” Troy chuckles, finally able to breathe evenly again.

            “Speaking of which,” Gabriella moves her head to the side of Troy’s and softly pecks him on the cheek, “That’s for saving my life.”

            “What do I need to for one on the lips?” Troy asks jokingly.

            “Ask.”

            “Okay, can I –” Troy is cannot finish his sentence since his lips become shut against Gabriella’s own soft, eager lips. 


	11. Epilogue

…

The Usual

**Epilogue**

            The pudgy man, flushing red in the face with veins bulging from his neck and forehead, screams at the top of his lungs, “I want a refund!” He leans back with his cardboard tray of nachos, winding up for a powerful throw.

            “Sir,” The blue-eyed waiter pleads from behind the counter, “As I already explained, you ate over half the meal. Company policy dictates that we cannot give refunds on meals over half finished.”

            “I show you where to shove your company policy!” The disgruntled patron hurls the tray directly at Troy.

            Troy ducks just in time, the nachos sticking to the wall behind him. He springs back up, rips his apron off from around his waist and yells back, “Get out or I’m calling the cops!”

            The man waves his middle finger behind him in farewell before pushing the door open and joining the bright, sunny day outdoors.

            Troy finishes up the last four hours of his shift bitterly; soured by the interaction with the entitled customer. He should be used to it by now. This isn’t the first altercation he’s had in the last six months at this job.

…

            His feet sore and his lower back aching, he finally reaches his level and puts his key into the lock. He lazily leans into the door to push it open and after the whole day of unrelenting awfulness, he finally crosses something pleasant; his beloved girlfriend making stir-fry on the stovetop.

            “Thank God you’re cooking, babe. I’m starving!” He comes up behind her and places a kiss on top of her bare shoulder.

            “I had a feeling you would be,” Gabriella giggles. “So I’m making extra.”

            “I love you.”

            “I love you, too.” She twists her neck to the side and puckers her lips.

            Troy smiles, leans his head down to hers and kisses her on the lips.

            “I’m going to write a little before dinner.” Troy gently pinches Gabriella on the butt, causing her to squeak before approaching his laptop on the side table next to a lone armchair.

            “Troy,” Gabriella glances behind her to him, “There’s something we have to talk about.”

            “Hold onto that thought, babe,” Troy raises a finger and begins eagerly typing. After a few moments of divulging into the fine intricacies of his plot, he realizes that Gabriella has approached him, her arms crossed over her chest seriously.

            “I’m sorry, I just _must_ get new story this outlined,” he explains himself. “It’s about this girl just entering high school after years of being homeschooled, at first it’s all very overwhelming, and - oh yeah! She has this adorable baby sister! She’s mainly just there to offset the tragedy in the book. Wait until I get to that. Ultimately, it’s a story about triumph and courage and confronting the people who hurt…” he pauses, catching Gabriella’s twitching lips. “Are you okay?”

            She glances up to the ceiling above in an attempt to keep the tears from falling. “You sound so excited about this new book, I- I can’t believe I have to tell you this and kill your dreams.”

            “Gabriella,” Troy closes his laptop and stands, dropping it onto the chair before bringing Gabriella into his arms. “There’s nothing you could tell me that’d squash my dreams. Now, what’s going on?”

            “I didn’t want to tell you this earlier because I was in denial, putting off taking a test, but I’m sure now,” she rubs her fingers together in front of her stomach anxiously. “Troy, I’m pregnant.”

…

            He keeps his knee propped up against the bottom of his desk in order to balance himself on the broken swivel chair. Photos of he and his pregnant girlfriend adorn the short cubicle walls, reminding him why he’s putting up with this awful job. With an uncomfortable headset constricting against his aching head, he continues his work. “On a scale of one to ten, how likely are you to vote in the upcoming election?”

            The woman on the phone line responds, “A ten, like you.”

            “Excuse me, miss?”

            “You sound hot. Are you hot?”

“Ma’am,” He groans, rolling his eyes until they focus on the cold cup of coffee next to his keyboard. “We need to complete the survey. If not I’ll have to disconnect the call.”

“Why don’t you get me to completion first, and then we’ll talk about your silly little survey.”

He clicks the end call button on his monitor and goes down the list to the next phone number.

            The phone rings two, three times before it clicks. A low, disgruntled voice greets him, “Hello?”

            “Good evening, am I speaking with Mr. Philips?”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Troy. I’m conducting a political survey on behalf of Pew Research Center. Do you have a moment to speak with me?”

            “Take me off of the call list, asshole!” _Click._

            Troy sighs, jotting a note by the man’s name in the call list. After another seven hours of similar calls, he finally swipes his punch card as he leaves the call center. He catches a train home and enters the stuffy apartment. He spots his girlfriend across the small room in their armchair with a book resting atop her bulging abdomen.

            “Hey,” She sweetly greets him.

            “Hey,” He shuts the door behind him and tosses his keys into a tray on the side table. He approaches the refrigerator and digs in to find a can of coke. He pops the can open and takes a long swig, rubbing the knot at the back of his neck.

            “Long day?” She asks, closing her book and nudging it between the cushion and the armrest.

            “Nah,” he shakes his head, taking a bowl of cold spaghetti out of the fridge. He tosses the lid off of it and places it into the microwave to cook.

            “You sure?” She slowly crosses over the rug into the kitchen.

            “What?” He says, rubbing his tired eyes.

            “Exactly,” she giggles, walking into his chest and wrapping her arms around him by the waist. “Are you sure this job isn’t too soul consuming for you?”

            “It doesn’t matter. I’ll keep telemarketing as long as I need to so that you and the baby can live comfortably.”

            “Surely we can find you something better.”

            “Like what, Gabriella? We were living pay check to pay check when I was waiting tables.”

            She suggests, “Maybe you could get an agent again.”

            “I don’t have time to write another book when there are bills that need to be paid.” A sudden pop from the microwave interrupts him and the appliance slowly dies as a cloud of smoke emits from its vent. “And now we need to buy a new microwave,” he throws its door open and removes the still cold spaghetti, roughly plopping it on the counter.

            “I don’t want you to give up on your dreams,” Gabriella says, removing her hands from around him and laying them on her stomach.

            “I’m not giving up on my dreams, I’m trading them. Writing _was_ my dream, but now I have different priorities.”

            “And you’re not resentful of that?”

            “Never,” Troy chuckles. “Don’t you worry about my dreams, sweetheart. I have everything I could possibly want right here.” He pulls Gabriella into a strong hold and leans his forehead down onto hers.

            While they lay in bed and her breathing gradually evens, he stays awake. His hand embarks on a journey from the top of her head down to her upper arm. His fingertips pass through the web of hair to stroke the soft patch of her skin. He reflects on his words from earlier, wondering if he was being truthful. The long, grueling hours he works in that godless call center truthfully do consume some of his soul. He could have kept writing and waiting tables if it weren’t for Gabriella’s pregnancy. Now there’s too much demanded of him to dedicate any time to writing. The fact of the matter is he cannot continue what he originally set out for New York City to accomplish.

He moves onto his side and allows his arm to wrap around her and rests his hand on her bump. He wouldn’t recognizable the man who impulsively abandoned college in pursuit of such an uncertain dream. Becoming a published author suddenly seems so insignificant in comparison to his new purpose, becoming a father. And as he slowly lulls off to sleep, his heart releases the unwritten stories he once cherished into the still air around them.


End file.
